The Wicked Ones
by hellohades
Summary: Sequel to The Wild Ones. Stiles is away at college in New York, and Derek is nowhere to be found. A stranger takes interest in Stiles, and perhaps there's more to this stranger than anyone could have imagined.
1. Misery

**Sequel to "_The Wild Ones"_**

**The Wicked Ones  
**_Perdition_

_**"I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love."**_  
-_Francois Sagon_

* * *

"_Still haven't heard from him?"_

"No. I mean," Stiles sighs, spent, "Lydia, what if he's really dead and I'm just sitting here talking to you—"

"_I resent that."_

"—no offense, baby cakes—but what if that's why he's not answering? What if I killed Derek? I knew I should have just transferred to Stanford! Damn New York and all its wonders!" Stiles slams his head on the desk in exasperation, his fist coming down beside his keyboard.

"_Oh Stiles, I talked to Erica yesterday. He's fine, a little slow—nothing new there—but he's fine. Okay? So, stop worrying_." Lydia glances up from her homework to the screen of her computer and Stiles grumbles something she can't quite make out. He raises his head and sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. Lydia smiles, even though the boy doesn't smile back.

It's a wonder, she thinks, she never truly fell in love with Stiles. He did indeed turn out to be the prettiest of them all; with his big brown eyes and dark hair, his pale skin and his beauty marks all over his body.

She sighs, glancing back down at her homework as Stiles looks off screen at something Lydia can't see.

"You talked to Erica, who talked to Derek. Well if she can talk to him, why can't he talk to me? That makes no sense. What a dick." Stiles rubs at his temple, crinkling up the skin on his forehead. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head. "I can't believe he's ignoring me."

"_Stiles. Just breathe. I'm sure he has a reason for not calling." _She glances back down at her paper and rubs her eyes wearily. The clock on her screen reads out 10:30pm like a worried parent, and she feels the weight of the day come crashing down around her shoulders. Her body feels heavy and worn out and just, i_ugh_/i. Her shoulders sag as she glances back up at Stiles and he's chewing generously at his bottom lip.

"Don't tell me what to do." Stiles whines softly, glancing up at her from beneath long, dark lashes.

Lydia laughs softly, tapping the end of her pen against her desk. "_Don't be such a baby." _She retorts, a smile playing across her glossy lips.

Stiles chuckles, scratching the back of his neck as he watches Lydia twirl her slender index finger in one of the longer strawberry blonde locks hanging over her shoulder. "I miss you." He says genuinely.

"_I miss you to, sweetie. Now," _she smiles at the boy through the screen, cocking her head to the side coyly._ "Tell me about this Matt character who can't seem to keep his eyes off you."_ The strawberry blonde pushes the paper out of her sight and rests her chin on her hands, leaning into her desk, genuinely interested.

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs in a way that seems long-suffering. Lydia knows better once the boy starts chewing on his bottom lip nervously. "Ugh. _Matt._" Stiles says the name with some level of disdain. "I dunno where to even start with that, Lyds. He's in my Econ class. He's sweet. Kinda too touchy-feely. But he's nice, he's just, you know." Stiles shrugs, looking distant once more.

"_Not Derek?"_ Lydia raises a brow at him and Stiles smiles, because despite the fact that she's thousands of miles away, seeing her through the computer screen makes it feel like she's right next to him again. He touches her face through the screen, and even though she can't see the action, it makes him feel slightly better.

His eyes soften and Lydia perks up, concerned. "Yeah. He's not Derek." The sentiment in his soft voice makes Lydia's stomach do a backflip.

"_You really miss him, huh?"_ She asks, a brow raised. Stiles nods, but says nothing else. "_Try calling him again."_ She suggests, glancing at the clock on her screen once more. 10:34pm.

Stiles nods, silent again. He glances at his own clock and sighs. 1:34am. He rolls his shoulders and drags his nails through his hair tiredly, resisting a yawn. "Yeah. Maybe in the morning. I'mma head to bed, babydoll. You should too, huh?" His finger hovers over the little red X at the top of the window as Lydia nods and smiles at him softly.

"_Yeah. I'll talk to you tomorrow, kay? Love you."_ She waves as Stiles confirms a time with her and they exit out of the window at the same time.

Stiles stares at the blank screen for a few moments longer, then makes a grab for his phone. He taps the home button, checks it for any messages, then sighs forlornly.

Still nothing; nothing from Derek, at least. He sighs and places the device on its charger than gets up from his desk and walks into his bedroom.

* * *

Stiles likes New York. The fall season is gorgeous, in a way that only Central Park can be truly breath taking. He has to stock up on light jackets though. The breeze from the ocean curls around the entire city like a blanket, holding in the chill. For now, the light coats are enough, but he'll have to buy a heavier one when winter rolls around.

But for now, he'll study under this tall tree; happy and content as he has been for most of the semester. The swaying shadows from the leaves above, the people walking their dogs and the wind that smells only slightly pungent—he's growing more and more used to it now—give a sort of serenity, a sort of normality that he hasn't felt in a while.

"Stiles! Hey, Stiles!" A voice calls distantly.

Stiles looks up from his textbook, a highlighter cap between his lips and glasses hanging off the tip of his nose. A boy with dark brown hair and lush green eyes comes jogging over to Stiles' side, waving as he leaves a small group of friends in his wake. They give Stiles a slightly disgruntled look before walking off, noses in the air.

Stiles inwardly groans. "Matt," He grins, forced.

Matt smiles as he closes in, and slides in beside Stiles under the tree, slinging an arm over his shoulder with such ease that it almost takes Stiles' breath away. Matt's hand cups at Derek's mark on Stiles' shoulder, and suddenly his skin feels like it's being licked by flames. Stiles wants to shrug the offending arm off of him and turn away, but he's trying his best to remember his manners.

Matt starts in on him with simple small talk and Stiles tries his best to seem interested—"How was your day?" "Did you have any more fun in Art History this time around?" "That's too bad. You thinkin' about switching majors yet?" "You look like you'd be good with kids. Ever think about teaching? That's what I wanna do. Teaching. It's my life's calling, you see. Or coaching, I was on the swim team for a while." "What about you, decide what you wanna be yet?"—before getting to the main reason he came to see Stiles—and of course, Stiles knew it was coming eventually.

"So, Stiles, I-I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me this weekend to see a mo—"

"Okay, stop right there." Stiles holds up a finger and closes his textbook, trying his damnedest to make a statement. He turns towards Matt fully, shaking off the man's hand from his shoulder and completely acknowledging his existence this time. Matt seems a little startled, but melts back into a calm, happy state almost instantly. A coy smile plays across his lips.

It irritates Stiles in a way that it shouldn't and grates against his teeth hostilely, making his skin burn against the offending, unpleasantly pleasant man in front of him.

"Look, Matt, you're a great guy and all, but I kinda already, you know, have someone back home." Stiles tries to let him down easily, because no matter how hard Matt has been trying to be his Knight in Shining Armor; Derek is still his King.

Matt just grins at him and keeps on smiling. "Hey, it's cool man, I'm just stuck going on this double date with a friend tomorrow and I, well, you know, I need someone to be my arm candy and I think you're cute so, yeah."

Stiles doesn't say anything at first. He stares at Matt and feels a stone growing in his stomach, weighing him down and grounding him to the spot—beneath the tall, shady tree he's grown to love so much. For a moment, he thinks he'll have to find a new spot to study under tomorrow. This spot has been tainted by Matt's memory. He reaches into his pocket and glances at the blank screen on his phone.

Nothing.

Lately, it's always been nothing.

Stiles shoves his phone back into his pocket and looks to Matt, and for a moment, his breath catches as he thinks the man's eyes drift to his shoulder—to Derek's mark—and his eyes flash a familiar kind of golden-ember.

Stiles blinks, pulling his glasses off his nose quickly and cleaning the lenses before he slides them back in place on the bridge of his nose.

Matt cocks his head to the side curiously, bumping their shoulders together playfully. Stiles gaps at the contact, gnaws at his bottom lip nervously as he tries to move away, pretending to shove things in his backpack as if putting the distance between them will make Matt disappear somehow.

"So?" The other asks, almost pleadingly. Matt raises a brow towards Stiles, his forehead scrunching together under the effort. His eyes follow Stiles like he's prey, and the youth has a sudden feeling that he may as well play dead and get it over with.

"Uh, yeah. S-sure, I'll, uh, I guess I'll go with you." Stiles whimpers, his voice strained—but not entirely forced.

He glances down at his textbook hesitantly before shoving it into his bag and standing, moving away from Matt. Something was off about the boy, but Stiles couldn't quite place it yet.

Matt grins, his eyes following Stiles as he walks away. "Good. I'll pick you up at seven!" He calls.

Stiles just nods and offers one-handed-wave. Derek's mark on his shoulder tingles, heating up in a way that's almost blisteringly painful. He rubs a hand over the invisible scar, trying to sooth the pain away.

He's going to miss that spot beneath the tree.

* * *

_"You what?"_ Lydia's mouth falls open in surprise.

"I agreed to go on a date with him tomorrow. I dunno. It feels wrong, Lydia. Like, really, _really,_ horribly, cheatingly, dirtily wrong." Stiles scrubs a hand over his face and looks away from the screen, ashamed.

"_Well, do you like him?"_ She's not judging him, and Stiles is so thankful for that—and at the same time, he's not. He kind of wanted her to yell at him, tell him he's wrong and he shouldn't be doing this—not to Derek; not to his King.

"I don't know. No. No. I don't. I don't like him at _all,_ Lydia." Stiles fists his hair and yanks softly at the edges. He really has the urge to scream right now. "What am I doing?" He whispers to himself, staring at the keyboard in front of his face. "I really don't even enjoy his company, I just—" He makes a whimpering noise as the pressure builds in the back of his throat, threatening to cut off his air.

_"Whoa, whoa, whoa, breathe, Stiles. Come on back to me now."_ Lydia drops her pen on the desk and it clatters loudly, reverberating against the inside of Stiles' skull. He screws his eyes shut and shoves his head between his knees, trying to breathe as deeply as he can.

It still feels like he's suffocating.

"_Honey," _Lydia calls softly,_ "it's okay. If you don't wanna do this, just call him and tell him something came up. It's not the end of the world."_

Stiles is hiccupping and sobbing by this time, and Lydia knows a full-blown panic attack is right around the corner. She just tries to keep him talking. _"Stiles, do you want me to fly out to New York tonight? I will. Don't put it past me. Come on, talk it out. What's so bad about Matt? Are you really that concerned about what Derek will think if you go on one tiny, little date?"_

Stiles chokes back a sob and shakes his head back and forth. "Why can't Derek just come back to me, Lydia? I haven't heard anything from him in _months. Months, Lydia._" He lifts his head away from his knees, cringing at the blinding blue light coming off the screen.

A strangled sob echoes across Lydia's screen and her heart wretches. _"Oh honey," _she grips the sides of her laptop desperately, trying to imagine Stiles' shoulders beneath her palms,_ "I'm sure he's got some reason for the radio silence, really. He has to."_

Stiles breaths deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He can hear his heart pounding away in his ears, and that almost makes it ten times worse. Derek is the worst—the absolute _worst._

Lydia reaches for her cell phone when Stiles goes silent and sends a text to Jackson right away. _Get ahold of Derek now._ It says.

_Why? Everything okay?_ Jackson shoots back. He must be bored to have been replying so quickly. Lydia smirks at the thought before reminding herself of the problems at hand.

"What if he doesn't have a reason, Lydia? What if-if he just, doesn't want me anymore?" Stiles uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe under his nose. "What if he found another mate back home? One who he can actually have near him and you know, won't put a million states between them and will actually keep him alive?"

_"Honey, that's not the reason at all. He only wants you. You know that and so do I." _She glances down at her phone and types another message out as quickly as she can. _Stiles is freaking out. Can't reach Derek. Where is he?_

Stiles sniffs and she looks up form her phone quickly. The boy is looking off screen at something she can't see again, and Lydia wants to ask what it is, but she doesn't.

_Oh…_ Jackson sends back.

_Do you know something?_ She asks, and her boyfriend doesn't respond with anything she wants to hear.

_Derek doesn't want Stiles to know._

Lydia makes a frustrated noise and Stiles looks up at her, sorrowful. He tries to smile, but Lydia knows it's fake, and before she can even utter a sentence, Stiles cuts in. "I'm gunna go to bed, Lydia. Love you. Goodnight." He mutters softly.

He closes out of the screen before Lydia has a chance to answer back.


	2. Bruised

**The Wicked Ones**  
_Bruised_

_**"Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away."  
**_-_F. Scott Fitzgerald, __The Great Gatsby_

* * *

"Let me walk you to your room," the boy at his side says. There's a smile in his voice, and a soft sort of twisted wickedness licking at his lips.

He's charming in a way that reminds Stiles of a more relaxed, sensual, less-self-loathing Derek. Oh God, Stiles shakes his head with a gut-churning depravity that knows no bounds. He realizes just how much he actually misses Derek, misses i_home_/i, and it doesn't help that Matt is just so devilishly charismatic.

But the thing he had with Derek—the mess that followed the heat and the secret marking business and the decently _too-quick-and-over-romance_—well, it all came at the wrong time, Stiles guesses.

It was all just too fast and too strong, and then just i_too over_/i. It wasn't really a relationship, Stiles has to keep reminding himself. Derek wasn't _actually_, solely his, ever, or well—will never be his, really.

Derek has a pack—that's who Derek belongs to, even if it is broken and scattered across the country in different universities; it's still a pack.

It's _Derek's_ pack.

It's always been Derek's pack. And Stiles is just the Robin to everyone's Batman—even if he does make the best Batman of all time. Duh.

"Thanks." Stiles whispers with a blush. He's got to stop thinking about Derek when Matt is right _here,_ just begging for Stiles' attention.

But honestly, Derek and he had had their moment, and they let it slip by. A few kisses, a wonderful night together that Stiles felt like he childishly begged for, and then, what?

_Nothing._ For two whole months.

His dad had saved up a lot of money to send him away, and the scholarship had helped what it could—but still, universities were not cheap in the slightest. Stiles wasn't going to waste all his dad's hard effort on some _boy_ who wouldn't even give him the time of day anymore.

Stiles sighs, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it all just piling up relentlessly. Was Derek even his anymore?

"Listen, I was wondering…" the boy begins, his eyes glistening in the light above Stiles' door. Man, where did the night go? Matt scratches the back of his head nervously. "Would you like to, you know, go out again, sometime?" He looks sheepish as he tries to recover, "I mean, I know you said you already have someone back home and all, but, look, Stiles, I just, you know, _really_ like you." Matt's hand finds it's way to Stiles' shoulder, his thumb rubbing a familiar pattern through his worn jacket.

Stiles blinks, smiling distantly at his classmate. Matt isn't much taller than himself, maybe only a centimeter, at best. "Uh, yeah, yeah, that sounds great. I'd love to." Stiles forces a smile, but his heart is breaking, shattering against his breastbone.

Matt grins, but there's a darkness to it that Stiles can't see past. "Good," he says, "pick you up Friday, say, around seven again? I'll have you back by midnight." There's a catch there, sewn into Matt's bottom lip, but Stiles doesn't care to look into it.

Stiles tries not to panic and sound too foolish as he nods, but a small whimpering sound escapes his throat unwillingly. The sinking feeling of guilt hits him like a shotgun blast to the chest, but he's never really been asked out before—and honestly, it feels sort of nice.

He bites his lip to keep himself from crying. "Yeah. See you Friday."

Matt grins, squeezing Stiles' shoulder once before dropping his hand back to his side. He pauses, leaning in hesitantly, as if to kiss Stiles. The brown-eyed boy stiffens, but Matt reaches behind him and twists the nob of his apartments door, pushing it open with his fingertips.

"Goodnight, Stiles." He sneers deviously before turning and sauntering away.

Stiles slams the door behind him.

* * *

_Derek, are you up?_

No reply.

Five hours later, still no reply.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, staring at the blank screen. It's 3am in New York, which means it's got to be somewhere around 6 or 7am in California. Derek might have just fallen asleep, perhaps that's why he didn't reply.

A day later. Nothing.

_Derek, come on. We need to talk. Where are you?_

Two days.

"Derek, please pick up the phone. This is the third voicemail I've left you today. I really, _really,_ need to talk to you. Please? Just, just, ugh. Call me back, okay…? Derek?"

Thursday, nothing.

Friday, still nothing.

"Derek, what's happening? Are you even there?"

Friday night, he's done waiting. He's done feeling guilty. He's done being left behind. Stile has had it.

_Derek, I can't do this anymore._

No reply.

* * *

Stiles wipes his eyes violently and sniffs. He's just so angry, so worn down and _tired_ of all this _bullshit._

Is it really so hard to be with him? He wonders.

Matt's at his door and ringing his doorbell right at seven, just as he said. Stiles is tossing his phone on its charger and grabbing his keys without thinking. He answers the door and smiles pleasantly, if a little hurried, and walks out as he locks the door behind him. Matt gives him a worried look once he takes in the boys' puffy red eyes, and Stiles just grins through it.

"You okay—"

"Don't worry about it." He says almost too quickly. He forces another smile, "where to?" Stiles waves a hand to dismiss Matt's worried expression as he pulls his black jacket in closer to his chest and zips it halfway.

Matt bites his lip and looks at Stiles pointedly. His eyes dart from Stiles eyes to his lips, and Stiles stands there nervously, his muscles restless with anxiety.

"Can I try something, just really quick?" The green-eyed boy asks, and his voice is kinder this time, coaxing Stiles' heartbeat into a gentler rhythm.

Stiles hadn't even known his heart was beating so obnoxiously fast until it was slowing down to a steadier pace and it wasn't echoing in his ears like a war drum anymore.

He smiles and nods, glancing at Matt's smiles. The grin he receives back is decent, if a little crooked, but then Matt's leaning down and in, capturing Stiles' lips in one quick, fluid movement. Stiles doesn't fight it, doesn't even care to. It feels so wrong, and still so dirty—and his lips are so chapped and almost too warm and so-so—so familiar.

It makes his brows furrow in confusion as Matt's lips press closer to his, slotting their mouths in place.

But it's not Derek. It never will be Derek. This is not Stiles' King.

This is Matt, the kid from his Econ class at the university; and so un-supernatural it aches in Stiles' bones.

He moans. Matt grins.

God, He misses Derek.

* * *

They eat at a little burger joint down the road and it isn't half bad. There are only a few other people inside, maybe four or five, including the waitress/hostess. The milkshakes are to die for, and Stiles instantly falls in love with the way their curly fries are seasoned and he can't stop himself from taking some of Matt's. Matt doesn't seem to mind, even nudges the basket over in Stiles' direction so he doesn't have to reach so far. He watches Stiles with eyes that remind the boy of a certain type of predator. Every move Stiles makes, Matt follows and watches him.

Stiles pauses, feeling a sense of déjà vu and shutters.

"So like, where are you from?" Stiles asks, trying to diffuse the tension he feels is somewhat only one-sided. Matt seems taken aback for a moment before he bursts out in loud laughter. The sound draws the attention of the other four patrons within the diner.

"Are you joking?" He raises a brow, and Stiles sneaks another fry with wide eyes.

"No, really, I mean, I'm from some stupid little city up—"

"Beacon Hills is not a stupid little city."

"Yeah it is—wait, what. How did you—?"

"Stiles, really? We went to the same high school." Matt smirks and rolls his eyes playfully.

"Are you fucking kidding me." Stiles gives a disbelieving look at the boy across the table from him and laughs bitterly. Of course. Naturally, right? "Fucking Beacon Hills."

"Fucking Beacon Hills." Matt echoes softly. He cocks his head to the side, a coy smile playing across his lips.

Stiles knows that smile, knows it all too well. The smile reminds him of predators all over again; of werewolves—of stray Omegas chasing Alphas in heat; reminds him of Derek; reminds him of pain and aching and hours of waiting up by the phone for calls that never come and texts that are never replied to and a bitterness left in the wake of ever place Derek's lips have touched and bruised and—

"You wanna get outta here?" Matt asks, glancing up at him from beneath dark lashes.

Stiles can hear the war drum of his heart echoing furiously in his ears. He forces himself out of his daze and nods feverishly, feeling a prickling sensation at the corner of his eye.

This dinner was too crowded anyways.

* * *

"What did you say your last name was?"

"Daehler, why?"

"I'm gunna have to look you up in the yearbook."

"Oh shut up, Stiles. It's okay that you don't remember me. You know me now, that's all that matters." Matt smiles, his teeth too white and his hair too perfect.

Stiles wants to vomit all over his feet just to mess something up about this date, but swallows hard and looks up at his room number instead. Time flew by so quickly with Matt, it was somewhat unnerving.

"Yeah, well, I'm still gunna look you up. I don't believe we went to the same school for four years and I don't remember you at all."

Matt just shakes his head, a charming smile etched onto his lips. "That's a shame. I was really great on the swim team."

He stays silent after that, watching as Stiles scratches the back of his head awkwardly, glancing around his surroundings as if expecting some sort of mythical creature to come out of the bushes and ruin his date-night.

He might even prefer that, perhaps.

"I guess I better turn in for the night. Call you later?"

Matt's smile never vanishes. He moves closer, closing the gap between them and leans in like he did earlier that night. Stiles would've normally thought Matt was being just a bit too forward, but tonight just wasn't one of those night. He pressed their lips together once more, cupping the back of Stiles' head gently and angling his mouth for better access.

Matt just keeps grinning as he pulled away and spoke, his voice raw and grating against Stiles' burning ears. "Yeah, I guess you should." His hand strokes down the side of Stiles' face, his thumb running along his bottom lip longingly. The feeling is reflected in his eyes, along with a hunger Stiles has seen only in porn.

Stiles gulps, swallowing hard.

Matt's eyes turn, piercingly, upon Stiles once more. "Or you can let me in and we can crawl into you bed together."

Stiles' breath hitches for a moment. He answers without thinking, shoving the guilt aside. "Sure. Sounds great."

Matt grins modestly, reaching behind Stiles and twisting the nob, letting them both into the apartment easily. Stiles is almost vaguely positive he locked that door before he left.

When the entryway closes, Matt presses Stiles into the door and captures his lips once more, slotting them together nearly perfectly and licking them apart with an eagerness Stiles has only seen in romantic-comedies. Stiles kisses back, if only a little slower and marginally inexperienced.

There's a growl, a deep, rumbling sound somewhere within Matt's chest that makes Stiles' whole body vibrate, and all he thinks about is the way his heart cuts up the inside of his ribs as it breaks and falls to pieces.

* * *

"Are you coming to bed yet?" Matt asks, a small amount of irritation in his voice.

Though, it's really, totally, completely understandable. Stiles did _kinda_ make him undress and then just _k__inda_ left him waiting so he could go check his phone in hopes that maybe, just maybe, Derek might have—

No missed calls. No replied texts.

Stiles slams his phone on the table and breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation as his eyes slide shut, blocking out the pressure building behind them. He releases a slow, steady breath, despite the growing ball in the back of his throat.

"Stiles."

He turns around slowly, coming face to face with a nude Matt. A blanket hangs generously around his hips, sagging loosely in his grip. Stiles licks his lips and grabs Matt by the jaw roughly, looking over his facial features and making sure they don't resemble Derek at all, before he's kissing the taller boys mouth mercilessly.

Matt makes a sound in the back of his throat, a sort of strangled startled noise. But he kisses back, latching a tight grip onto Stiles' neck.

He pushes Matt to the living room and let's Matt fall on top of him on the couch. Stiles forces his dominance to reign supreme in the kiss, fighting against the green eyed man till his lips are bruised and raw and his tongue is soft and playable.

Stiles doesn't stop. He doesn't care. He bites and nips at Matt's lips, his jaw and down his collarbone and chest; from there, his hands trail up the man's torso, scrapping against the man's ribcage and over sinew muscles.

Matt growls heatedly, flipping them so that he's on top of Stiles, his weight is a crushing force against the former lacrosse player. He shoves Stiles' pants down to his ankles and flips him on his stomach easily, already sucking on two of his fingers for some form of light lubrication before he inserts one digit into Stiles entrance, scissoring him open relentlessly.

Stiles groans shamelessly, biting the couch cushion till he fears the fabric will rip and tears well up in the corners of his eyes. Matt doesn't give him much more of a warm up before he's thrusting into him slowly, pressing Stiles face into the couch as he slides all the way in and fucks into his generously.

Stiles begs him to move faster, pulling at the sheet gathered around his thighs and _tugs_. Matt groans wantonly, fucking into Stiles vigorously and swallowing up every moan that lingers too long on the brown-eyed boys' inexperienced lips.

Stiles doesn't pay much attention to the details of their coitus, but imagines it's Derek behind him—imagines his Alpha's brazened hands at Stiles' hips; imagines it's Derek pounding into him till his muscles are burning and there's an aching sensation building in his lower abdomen and it's just begging to be sated.

"_So tight_," Matt growls. "_So good," _he whimpers, hunching over just slightly. Stiles gasps at that first brush of Matt's dick over his prostate, then the second, and the third.

He moans loudly, his hand shooting out to brace him against the wall as Matt's thrusts come faster, harder, slamming into his rear like a catastrophic highway pileup.

"_Oh God, Stiles, yes_." Matt blusters, throat tight. The slick sound of skin slapping against skin is all Stiles pays attention to, even as he grows harder and harder with every generous brush of Matt's dick against his bundle of pent up nerve endings. He whimpers as Matt's hand wraps around him effortlessly, his thumb flicking over his weeping slit as he skillfully begins pumping every last drop out of him. "Come on, Stiles," Matt grits through clenched teeth. "Say my name."

Stiles moans in the back of his throat and Matt all but loses control. He moans as he slams all the way inside Stiles, a growl caught on his lips as his mouth latches onto Stiles shoulder, teeth pressing firmly onto the skin.

Stiles can almost feel it break and peel away like bark off a tree, but he doesn't mind—doesn't even care. The moan he had prepared is choked off before it even fully began as he releases all over his clean couch and Matt's hand. He sees white and spots, flowering behind a curtain of shadow and shade.

Matt retracts his teeth from Stiles skin, but his mouth lingers, sucking pleasantly around the tender area. Stiles just bites the inside of his cheeks; he'll bare the bruise like a sinner till it fades from existence. He turns his head away and slamming his eyes shut. It'll keep out the image of Matt satisfied in his flesh, it'll keep out the light, keep out the drought that plagues him—keep out the thoughts of Derek.

Matt grins at him and collapses onto him, not even bothering to pull out all the way. Stiles sighs and opens his eyes when he feels Matt's mouth dislodge from his shoulder completely, replaced only by softer, sloppy kisses.

"That was amazing." Matt mutters breathlessly, chuckling as he throws the discarded sheet over top them. It smells of sweat and come, but Stiles doesn't care much anymore.

Stiles makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, but doesn't fully reply back with anything else.

_Derek,_ he thinks, and he swears by the crown his King wears, by the pale green of his eyes and the minty after shave he rarely ever uses, _where are you now?_

He closes his eyes when he catches a glimpse of the teeth-shaped mark on his flesh.

He'll bare it like a sinner.

* * *

Stiles calls Lydia over Skype the next day and cries into his hands, praying to a God he doesn't believe in—to a King who doesn't listen—for some sort of forgiveness.

Lydia can't do anything to console him. Jackson fills her in on what's happening with Derek—and makes her swear not to tell Stiles. _Yet._

She calls and screams at Derek's voicemail for four whole days before his voicemail becomes full. When Derek finally does answer, Lydia just screams more.

Stiles Stilinski doesn't come home for Thanksgiving. His father gruffly tells him he misses him, and he wishes he'd call home more often. Stiles promises he will, but he won't.

Boyd misses Thanksgiving as well, due to midterms. Erica is pissed and takes it out on Isaac. Isaac finds solace in Danny, which is new and, well, slightly unnerving.

Derek is nowhere to be found.

* * *

"I'll be home for Christmas." Stiles promises, but his voice is nearly dead. His eyes look slightly sunken and his cheeks look fairly hollow.

Lydia wonders if he's sick or eating or, hell, does Stiles even sleep anymore? This is becoming severely unhealthy. "_It'll be okay, Stiles. I promise. We'll work through this once we're all home again, got it?"_ She raises her brow for emphasis.

Stiles isn't even phased. His hand moves towards the mouse and Lydia knows the conversation is over instantly. "You can't promise anything, Lyds. Goodnight."

* * *

The affair continues for the next few months, until winter rolls around and the semester ends with all of Stiles' finals passed and with Christmas only a few days away. New Years is not far off, either.

New York is cold and snowy and wintery. The sidewalks are slush and it sticks to his shoes, seeping in through the material and soaking his socks. Stiles hates it. He wishes for the sunshine and the warmth that is Beacon Hills' balmy winters.

Matt complains about the snow too, tells Stiles it's his least favorite season with a bitterness that lingers as they walk to the parking garage of Stiles' apartments.

Matt is genuine, in a way that kills Stiles. He's a closet romantic—and he whispers sweet nothings to him in the dark of his room. He talks about wanting to map out constellations on Stiles' skin. He wants to put out a million fires in Stiles' name. He wants to climb the highest mountain, dive into the deepest parts of the ocean and carve their initials in tree trunks like children do.

Matt wants Stiles, just for being Stiles. He smiles at Stiles like he's the only thing Matt sees clearly anymore.

Stiles wants nothing more than to disappear.

"Are you going back to Beacon Hills for Christmas?" Stiles asks softly, clutching onto a small duffle bag of clothes and a laptop bag that will get him through two weeks back home.

Matt shrugs. "I dunno. Was kinda waiting for you to ask me to come along with you." He beams at Stiles and the jagged sinking feeling in his stomach persists.

The guilt never did go away.

Stiles tries to fake it a little longer, at least till he gets to the airport. "It's up to you. I'm gunna be at my dad's most of the time. He got me a rent-a-car so I can go anywhere, regardless. If you go back, you can always drop by for a visit." He knows Matt will go back home for Christmas; he has too, he's got family there that'll be begging for him to visit.

He also knows his dad will freak out when Matt shows up. He fully knows Stiles is gay now, has known for a few months—"it's just a phase son, it'll pass." "Not really dad." "Oh. _Oh._" "Yeah." "Well, congrats, son." "Thanks… I think?"

But he hasn't told his dad about Matt yet. Only Lydia knows, and she keeps referring to Matt as Stiles' _boyfriend._ He cringes when she says that, and she's seen Stiles cry over webcam because of Derek—because Matt is turning out to be so great and Derek is still nowhere to be found.

_"Love is stupid, Stiles. When you come home, I'll be there for you." _She whimpers in his ear almost every night, and Stiles knows she's telling the truth. She offers him a small, soft smile of understanding, and says; _"Derek loves you, Stiles. I don't know what's going on," _she lies, "_but I know he does. He loves you regardless of whatever you're doing with this Matt kid. He'd be crazy not to."_

And, it's a wonder really. Lydia is the one he turns to, the one he calls most often now. Scott isn't really his best friend anymore—due to Allison and Isaac being the boys' main focus. Besides, they all stayed in state—they still all have each other to depend on. Everyone else vacated.

"My flight isn't for a few more days, but I'll call you when I get in, okay?" Matt kisses Stiles softly, like a lover, and Stiles wants to kiss him back like that, too—but he's not Derek. He's not starlight and warmth and the smell of woods and minty aftershave.

Matt is not the King of Stiles' heart.

Matt understands. Stiles has told him about Derek—about the love he left back home. Matt backs off and places a softer kiss on Stiles' forehead for safe measures, whispers something about constellations and oceans and mountaintops, but Stiles doesn't listen.

Matt knows about Derek. The war drum of Stiles' heart echoes in his ears. Matt knows Stiles is still holding out for his lost King.


End file.
